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The Bounty of the Bobbsey Twins

Sometimes, the Christmases we most remember are the ones where we didn't get what we asked for. When I was about nine, I was enamored with the pseudo-mystery series of the Bobbsey Twins. The series told of the exploits of two sets of twins: Bert and Nan, the dark haired older twins, and Freddie and Flossie, the golden haired younger twins. The twins were raised by Mr. and Mrs. Bobbsey, whose parenting style never rose above the level of amused exasperation as they cheerfully funded adventures like The Bobbsey Twins at London Tower, #52, and The Bobbsey Twins and their Camel Adventure, #59. The books were uniform in shape and size, with a violet background cover featuring the twins in their latest adventure. They had comfortably predictable plots. Despite my best efforts, my life was nothing like the Bobbsey twins. My parents didn't believe that I needed to go to London, or any other place that required a passport or the crossing of a state line. They confined me to trips around the block on my single speed Schwinn. Nor did they believe that I should have any exotic pets, even though it was clear to me that nobody ever had any great adventures with a gerbil, our family pet. My Christmas list that year was topped by an official Boston Bruins hat and hockey stick, but in the number three spot were the Bobbsey Twins books. Christmas morning, I raced down the stairs and saw five or six of those treasured books under the tree. My heart bounded with joy as I ran to read them. My mother stretched out her hand to stop me. "They're not yours." I was tempted to ignore her, but I opened the front cover and read the inscription, “To Janine – Love, Daddy.” “It's a mistake,” I said, “Janine doesn't even like to read.” “It's not a mistake,” said my Dad, the finality in his voice not matching his blurry-eyed gaze. “Is it even six yet?” he asked my mother. My mind raced in loops of logic. Since there were five of us kids, maybe my parents got confused. At nine, I was the oldest and I loved to read. My little sister Susan, who was five, had recently learned to read and also loved books. Janine, my seven year-old middle sister didn't like to read, and didn't care about books. She didn't even ask for books for Christmas! The injustice of the situation filled my eyes with hot tears. “I'm reading 'em.” I challenged Janine. Janine shrugged. “I don't care,” and went on pulling the life size Chrissy doll's hair out of her head, creating mod, fashionable looks. “Did you see the Bruins hat?” asked my mother. I was almost distracted, but my little sunbeam of a brother toddled over in his footed pajamas, patted me on the leg, and handed me one of Janine's newly acquired books. I reached out my foot and gave him a little shove. Unlike the Weebles he had received that morning, he fell down. “Smarten up.” warned my Dad. Mr. Bobbsey never said smarten up. Right then, I refused to participate in Christmas anymore. Instead, I plotted my escape to run away to meet Laura Lee Hope, who would write about me, and the adventures I'd be sure to be having if only she knew me. She'd probably even buy me a camel! Or a lion! Definitely she'd get me something better than a gerbil. My stomach growled. “Come have some breakfast.” my mother suggested. I decided that it was probably best to have some food in me before I ran away. But once sated by Canadian bacon, hot chocolate, and ribbon candy, I curled into a chair with one of Janine's books and read the day away as that Christmas passed. Thousands of breakfasts later, Janine stopped by my house with a large cardboard box, filled with her Bobbsey Twin books. “Don't your girls want to read them?” I asked. “No.” she said. Elise and Grace were reading other authors, and somehow, the Bobbsey Twins didn't grab their attention. After Janine left to make a delivery to one of her Mary Kay clients, I peered into the box. The dull violet book covers methodically arranged in uniform rows didn't beckon with their past allure. By habit, I opened a cover to read, but Nan and Bert's mystery solving abilities did not hold my attention. Freddie was clearly diagnosable with ADHD, and would be placed on Ritalin today. And who names their child Flossie? That kid could not have been as happy as she appeared. What was Laura Lee Hope thinking? I Googled her name for some insight and gasped – Laura Lee Hope was not real ! She was just a fake name for a bunch of writers at the Grosset & Dunlap Publishing Group who cranked out the Bobbsey Twin series. Good thing I hadn't run away – no camel, no adventure, and no way to find an author who doesn't really exist. Geez, I thought, those people at Grosset & Dunlap should smarten up. I called my mother to share the upsetting news. As we talked, I asked her the question that had bothered me for years. “Why,” I asked, “did you give the Bobbsey Twin books I wanted for Christmas to Janine?” She sighed. “We saw that you loved them so much, and we were hoping that if we gave them to Janine she would fall in love with reading.” “How'd that work for ya?” I drawled in my best Dr. Phil imitation. We both laughed and I forgot all about it. Months later, Christmas rolled around, and my mother handed me a small rectangular package. Even though it had been decades, a little thrill shot through me as I opened the package and became the proud owner of The Bobbsey Twins of Lakeport, first in the series of the Classic Edition. I may never read it, but I'm wicked glad my mom gave it to me.